


Desolation

by TulipFluff



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Post-RDR2, Pre-Red Dead Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TulipFluff/pseuds/TulipFluff
Summary: How far they've fallen. Still running with Dutch, Javier and Bill are all that are left of the old guard. There's a camaraderie there, regardless of old grudges. There has to be, when everything else has been lost.
Relationships: Javier Escuella & Bill Williamson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Desolation

“I guess Susan was right,” says Javier quietly. It’s just him and Bill at the fire, awake and lonely under the desert starry skies. Bill nurses a bottle in his left hand, a few empties scattered about. He’s not wasted, not yet, but Javier figures the night is still relatively early. A quiet, questioning _hmm_ from Bill spurs Javier to say, “She always said we’d go feral one day without her.”

“I’ll drink to that,” murmurs Bill, tipping his bottle back.

Neither can claim to be the men they once were. Bill is thinner, a harder edge to his face these days. The bones of his face seem sharper, his eyes too big and wild. No longer is there a camp cook and regular meals. It’s every man for himself, Javier, Bill, Micah, Dutch, and whatever stray guns they pick up for the moment.

“Who would have thought we’d miss Pearson’s cooking?” says Javier. A note of wonderment tinges the painful memories. Everything still hurts, even months, a year, more, later.

“I shot a man for a pear yesterday,” admits Bill. “Saw him riding by, pulled a green pear from his bag. First green food I’d seen in… God. Months. Shot him in a heartbeat. Best goddamn fruit I ever ate.”

Javier nods. He _feels_ that sentiment.

Bill looks at him. He lifts a finger, hand wobbling in the air, and pokes a spot on Javier’s elbow. “Got another— _hicc_ —hole in yer jacket,” he says and Javier idly twists the arm to look. Indeed, there it is, a scrape from a knife fight with someone or another in the gang this morning. Javier doesn’t pretend to keep track of most of the new blood. They come and go, live and die, flee and wander off.

Javier sighs.

“I’m still the best dressed of you lot,” he mutters, and Bill huffs a hollow laugh. Bill is thinner, but Javier has lost his slick air. He’s not _scruffy_. He is still miles above the rest of the gang, but his clothes are dusty and worn in ways they never were before. It was always Tilly who washed his clothes. Javier would sit by the women’s area of the camp, playing every song she requested, and she would smile and hum as she worked.

_“I feel bad, just playing while you work so hard.”_

_“I love listening to you. Makes the work go by faster.”_

Mary-Beth had been a master with a needle as well. Tilly took care when washing his clothes, but Mary-Beth could repair the worst of the damage from a fight. Javier can mend a rip, but nowhere near Mary-Beth’s skill, and he doesn’t even try. He takes to dressing down. Simple outfits of simple colors replace his wardrobe as time moves on and the Van Der Linde gang moves west once more.

Javier searches his bag for food. He hit a rabbit with a knife earlier and seared the meat. It’s a tasteless meal, but Javier tears a bite anyway. He feels Bill’s eyes on him like a hungry dog, and a knife twists in Javier’s heart just to think about Cain. He sighs and drops a cloth wrap in Bill’s hand.

It earns him a quiet, “Thanks.”

Bill never was much of a hunter. With their names on so many wanted posters, it’s rare to chance a visit into town unless a bandana was equipped, and no one seemed to want to be the gang member holding up the general store for bread and cheese. For a guilty moment, Javier considers how often Bill must go hungry, relying on the provisions of the travelers they rob.

“Surprised it ain’t fish,” mutters Bill and Javier chuckles.

“Never actually liked fish much.”

“What! But—you was always goin’ off fishin’—before—”

“I like to fish,” says Javier, “But I was always bringing my catches back for someone else.”

Bill looks down and utters, “Oh.”

“Hosea.” Javier chokes just a little on the word. The old man taught him how to fish, and a dozen happy memories stab at Javier’s heart. “He, uh. He always said I’d regret not eating more of my catches. Fish is good for the bones or… joints… Something. Karen liked a good salmon, too.”

For a moment, it hangs in the air between them. No point in fishing when there’s never any time, when both men feel hollow with hunger and there’s still no one to share a meal with. Right now, this bit of smoked rabbit shared between them, it feels to Javier the closest like company he’s had in months.

Bill pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offers one to Javier. A smile twitches and dies on Javier’s lips. “Thanks,” he says.

He breathes in, and breathes out smoke. A moment passes, and then Bill says, “Think Dutch’ll ever get another cook?”

A chuckle. “Miss Pearson’s cooking that much, eh?” A breath. “No. Probably no more girls either.” He misses the distraction Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen were always ready to play for a job. They haven’t run a job that didn’t begin and end in bloodshed in weeks. There’s never any more finesse, hardly a bother to preserve a life. Micah leads a charge and he’s right in one regard: there’s nobody to notice a theft if there’s nobody left to notice. Every mile behind them feels soaked in blood, in such a way it boggles the mind to think they ever cared about one dead girl on a ferry.

Javier sighs. “If we couldn’t trust them after all those years, I don’t know how we’d ever trust anyone else.”


End file.
